


Inspiration

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor meets the man who will become Proteus</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



The river rolls on, a slow, grey mass with quickening surface currents that catch against one another, circle and counter-change as if in a dance, then spool out in a widening stream.

It is like life, Victor thinks. An endless flow interrupted by swirling eddies, delayed by deep currents, meetings and acquaintance cast up like flotsam to be scavenged and re-used.

Today it is not flotsam he seeks, but jetsam. In times not long past—the halcyon days of the Resurrection Men—he would have strolled downriver from Wapping and watched for the passage of floating bodies. Hanged for three tides until death was more than assured, the corpses were then jettisoned to be claimed by the river.

These days the process is much more variable. There’s no certainty of a cadaver cut loose at a specific time. He must wait for sight of a murder victim or suicide, and even if they wash up within easy reach, oftentimes the damage—from fish, from rudders and oars—is too great for the body to be of any use.

Still, anything he can collect is worthy of study.

A chill wind whips over him, scoring his cheeks to warmth and squeezing a few tears from his eyes. The smell of the river, thick as spoiling meat, infests his nose. Victor puts his head down and walks, scanning the grey mud for anomalies, sorting and dismissing the things he sees.

No jetsam today.

He halts at Greenland Docks. The Thames slides away, glittering in the weak sunlight. It looks like a promise amongst the noisome activity, a clear path away from the lighters and ironclads and fat-hulled merchant vessels.

He stands there awhile, then becomes aware of the young man beside him. A sailor, by the rough manner of his clothing and the smell he carries: wet cordage and tar and the earthy-metallic whiff of the bilges.

“Beautiful, sir, isn’t it?”

Accustomed to lewd remarks and gruff abuse from sailors, this opening gambit causes Victor to raise his eyebrows. He turns to examine his interlocutor and sees a man of middle height and unremarkable appearance—pale skin, dark brows, unshaven and world-weary. Anyone and no one.

“The river, sir.” The sailor is embarrassed. It shows not in his face but in his voice, a flat accent Victor can’t identify. “You were staring so intensely.”

“Yes.” Victor looks back at the water, imagining the view through his companion’s eyes. He attempts this same exercise with each one of his creations, trying to imagine in advance how they will see, what they will see, how they will understand. The process is largely academic; he has only successfully re-birthed one child, and his creation’s view of the world revealed itself to be skewed more towards violence than wonder. Still, Victor tries. “What do you see out there?”

The sailor expels a breath, as if the question is difficult to answer. He reaches up to touch the locket in the open neck of the darned, oft-laundered shirt. The metal is so base it’s corroded in the salt air and left a smudge of green on his skin. “I see the gateway to the world,” he says.

It’s oddly poetic from such a man. Victor stares.

The sailor seems abashed, his smile sewn up tight. “Don’t you think so, sir?”

“Indeed.” Victor inclines his head. “Absolutely.” He pauses. “Trade is the lifeblood of this country. We are the beating heart of an empire.”

His words, patriotic and banal as they are, cause the sailor to flinch. He notes the response with concern, asks his companion what’s wrong, begs pardon for anything inappropriate he may have said.

“Blood,” mutters the sailor, his gaze distant as he looks down the river. “Heart. It reminded me of the whale.” He shudders, then snaps his focus back to Victor, embarrassed again. “Foolish thoughts trouble me, sometimes. Make me remember.”

“What?” Victor keeps his tone soft. “What do you remember?”

Another outrush of breath. The sailor hunches his shoulders. “We had a baby, Doreen and me. It’s why we got wed, but that was all to the good. I thought I’d be at sea when the babe came, but no. I was there. In our rooms. The midwife there and me with nowhere to go...”

Victor knows what comes next. He’s been an expectant father. He’s had failures, too. The feeling of empathy blossoms, as heady as opium.

“Doreen, she was howling like an animal. There was blood everywhere, and flesh I didn’t recognise.” The sailor’s expression is bleak. “The midwife said the babe was killing her. Too big in the head, and her too narrow in the hips. I had a choice, my wife or my son. I chose her.”

Silence knots itself around them. Victor wants to protest— _Why didn’t you save your son?_ —but stops himself. He knows nothing of the affections between man and woman. He knows only the pain and heartache of parenthood.

The sailor makes a harsh sound. “The midwife took my son out of my Doreen in pieces. There was...” He stops, gaze fixed on the horizon. “I went out and signed myself to the next vessel that sailed. A whaler bound for Spitsbergen. We hunted the animals through freezing waters, through gales so sharp it felt like the skin was flayed from your face. And when we caught one, stuck it with harpoons and dragged it in, stripped the flesh off it in layers... All I could see was my son.”

His hand comes up again, toys with the locket. “Doreen hasn’t forgiven me. Can’t say I blame her.”

Victor remains quiet for a heartbeat. “I have lost a child, too.”

“A terrible thing.” The sailor shakes his head. “And you a medical man, too. That must make it harder.”

Surprise freezes Victor in place. “How did you ascertain my profession?”

“Your hands, sir.” A nod in their direction. A gentleman should wear gloves, but Victor has never felt the need for that nicety. His patients do not demand it, either; for in the main they are beyond the reach of propriety.

“They’re clean, sir. Your hands are clean and neat.” The sailor spreads his own hands in comparison. Work-worn, grime rubbed deep into the creases of the skin; nails split and torn to the quick; scars and calluses. “Your nails are as prettily done as a woman’s. Prettier, I’d say.” He drops his hands. “Doreen’s hands are as rough as mine. She bites her nails, too.”

Victor flexes his fingers, curling them inwards. “I am a doctor.” The power of the statement throbs through him like the river.

The sailor gives him a curious look. “Why did you come here, sir? Surely not for employment.”

“No,” Victor agrees, a smile breaking across his face. “Not for employment. I came here in search of inspiration.”


End file.
